


Sherlock Holmes Goes to Hogwarts

by Maddie_Jae



Series: Sherlock Holmes Goes to Hogwarts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gregcroft, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, Potterlock, Wandlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddie_Jae/pseuds/Maddie_Jae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes lives with his family of wizards in rural England.  When disaster strikes, Sherlock must either impress the Hogwarts professors in order to attend school three years early, or risk his older brothers' education and live with a Muggle for the next three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wizard Called Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes crouched quietly on a large rock in his backyard, head bent low with his chin resting on his knees, looking down into a shallow pond at the small tadpoles swimming between the reeds.  Sherlock pushed his dark curls out of his eyes and unscrewed the lid from his glass specimen jar, setting it down sideways into the water and waiting patiently for a tadpole to swim inside.  He watched with baited breath as a tadpole swam near the opening of the jar, its fins waving rhythmically against the unseen current, then suddenly darted inside just as a scowl appeared on Sherlocks’ face.  As he lifted the jar from the surface of the water, a gleeful smile instantly replaced the annoyed expression.  His hands were sure and his lips still pulled back in a grin as he screwed the lid onto the jar, his blue eyes bright and curious as he held his specimen up to his eye level. 

It was there, sitting crouched on his feet by the pond, looking into a small glass jar with complete focus, as if the universe itself resided in the waving fins of a green tadpole, that Mycroft Holmes found his eight year old brother.

“What did you find, Sherlock?”  Mycroft asked, striding up to the pond.  Mycroft Holmes noted the dirt on the seat of his little brothers’ dark red shorts from where he’d been sitting on the damp rocks around the pond.  Sherlock’s blue long-sleeve button up had the sleeves rolled back almost to the elbows, and Mycroft couldn’t help but notice the dirt on his brother’s elbows and on the palms of his hands.

“I didn’t find it,” Sherlock answered, smile gone as he continued to study the tadpole, turning the glass around slowly. “I captured it for science, my observations will lead to a greater understanding of amphibian life as we know it. Run along now, Mycroft, I have important matters to attend to.”

Mycroft chuckled at his little brothers’ serious tone, shuffling his feet and coughing to hide the sound. Unfortunately, like almost always, nothing was lost on Sherlock; and his eyes were wrenched from his jar to look at his brother with anger and hurt in his eyes.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Sherlock. I wasn’t laughing at you, just your odd ways. And I laugh at those with love.” Mycroft gave him a tight smile, which _was_ lost as Sherlock chose that moment to roll his eyes, and continued; “I’m going over to the Lestrade's’ for the afternoon, do you want to come? We’re going to play quidditch.”

Sherlock stood, pulling the specimen jar into the crook of his elbow and holding his head up high. “Not today, thank you, Mycroft. Tell your boyfriend hello for me and to stop sending owls at all hours of the night. Good morning, Brother.”

“Good morning, Sherlock. See you tonight.” Mycroft turned halfway, looking towards Sherlock’s retreating back before adjusting his umbrella and book and returning to the path that led out of his family’s estate.

 

“Mummy, I can’t find my looking glass!” Sherlock shouted, shifting his biology book aside, opening drawers in a mad frenzy.

“Did you leave it in your bed, dear?” Mrs. Holmes’ voice floated up the stairs. Sherlock turned and pulled his blankets back, revealing a book, a torch, a small dish of a moss sample, and his magnifying glass. Sherlock nodded his head, silently berating himself for forgetting.  He’d spend half the night looking at the moss’ roots, or lack thereof, until he’d finally understood the plant and his mind had stopped racing enough for him to fall asleep.

“Found it!” He called, returning to his desk and tadpole.

Sherlock had just begun drawing the tadpoles’ stumpy, still-forming legs when his mother knocked lightly on the door frame. “Might I see what you’re working on, dear?” She asked, full well knowing he’d be pleased to show off his work.

“Certainly, Mummy. But my drawing isn’t complete just yet.” Sherlock said, not turning or halting in his careful drawing. Mrs. Holmes moved quietly to stand behind her son, looking over his shoulder at a detailed drawing of the front end of a tadpole.

“Your drawing skills are improving, Sherlock, that looks wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mummy.” Sherlock said, dipping his quill in a bottle of black ink and adjusting his grip on his looking glass.

After a moment of silence broken only by the scratching of Sherlock’s quill, Mrs. Holmes said, “Sherlock, I need a favor of you when you’re done with your inquiry, please.  If you help me, I’ll let you use a wand.”

Sherlock sat up straight in his chair, turning towards his mother and looking into her eyes for any indication that she might be lying. There was none, and a huge grin spread over Sherlock’s face.  He wasn’t suppose to have a wand, he was too young to use magic, but sometimes Mummy let him anyway, since the trace wasn’t activated until a child attended school. “I’m not busy, what do you need?”

His mother smiled in return. “Come with me.”

 

“Just tap it lightly, Sherlock, speak clearly.” His mother released his wrist, and Sherlock tapped the crystal with his late uncle’s wand.

“Crystarium.” Sherlock said softly, and when there was no response, he straightened his back and tilted his head in an annoyed way.

“Don’t fret, dear, try again.”

Sherlock set his jaw, held his wand properly, and tapped the crystal again. “Crystarium.” Sherlock said it was all the authority he could muster, and this time, the crystal glowed slightly. A smile spread across Sherlock’s face and a delighted gasp escaped him.

“Good job, Sherlock!” His mother said, hugging his shoulders. “Now go out and find as many as you can for Mummy.”

Sherlock took the velvet bag from his mother, let her kiss his dark curls, and ran from the house like a madman, wand held at the ready as he set out on his latest case.

 

As far as cases go, usually the ones Sherlock’s mother give him are more interesting.  He’d been walking around his family’s estate and surrounding countryside, hunched over and picking up rocks for the past three hours.  The velvet bag his mother had given him was about three quarters of the way full.  In the past half hour he’d discovered that there were more crystals to be found around outcroppings of rock, so he’d been focusing more on those areas and his collection had grown pleasantly since then. 

Sherlock plucked a large, clear stone from the ground, hoping it was the type he’d been looking for.  “Crystarium.”  He said softly, and the glowing response made him sigh with relief.  The large stone filled the velvet bag, thus bringing his case to a close.  He struggled to draw the strings over the top of the rock, and stowed his borrowed wand in his pocket with his magnifying glass as he raced up the hill towards his home.

 

His mother had praised him, of course, for his cleverness. She’d given him lunch and promised to give him extra sweets after dinner (more than Mycroft, he’d made her promise on that) and Sherlock was even going to be allowed to watch Mummy work.

Mrs. Holmes was a clever witch, she was currently working on a new potion to help a werewolf control his transformation.  Wolfsbane had been discovered years earlier, but she thought it could be possible for a werewolf to transform outside of the full moon time limit.  She was a dabbler in dark magic, but of course she didn’t use it for amoral purposes, simply for a better understanding of it all.  Sherlock adored her, as she adored him.  She adored Mycroft as well; as smart, charming, and diabolical as he was.  But Mycroft was more like his father, and Sherlock, more like his mother.

It never came as a shock to Mr. Holmes that his wife let their eight year old use magic on a regular basis; both of Sherlocks’ parents knew how he loved to use a wand, and how it was all the more appealing to him because he wasn’t suppose to, and because he thought his father didn’t know.  But it  _ was _ a shock when he came home from the Ministry of Magic to find his young son in the potions room with his wife performing an experiment that could be dangerous.  He wasn’t exactly thrilled with his wife for putting herself in danger, much less little Sherlock.

“Stand by the door, don’t cross the threshold and that’s as close as you’ll be, young man.”  Mr. Holmes had said as soon as he’d heard their explanation.  Sherlock had grumbled, but relented after his father threatened to send him out to the Lestrade’s for Mycroft to babysit him.  In the end, Sherlock occupied the hallway, seated on a stool across the hall from an open door where his parents’ were assisting one another in brewing a foul-smelling potion.  Sherlock had just asked his father what boomslang skin would do for the potion when suddenly, the whole room was ripped apart by an explosion.

 

Mycroft was seated on the Lestrade’s back porch with Gregory Lestrade, the only son of the household, talking about their last year at Hogwarts.  The school year had ended three weeks previously; Greg had just returned from holiday with his parents the day before, and was filling his best friend in on all he’d seen.

“And the markets, Mycroft, you wouldn’t believe them, they stretched for blocks!  Whole streets of wizarding merchandise set out in the open for anyone to see!  There was one man, scary looking guy, selling dragons!”  Greg was sitting in the chair across a small table from Mycroft, an untouched sandwich in front of him, arms held high as he gestured wildly and told his stories.  Mycroft had been listening intently, though his sandwich was finished and his cup of tea drained several times over during Greg’s long tale.

“Did you buy one?” Mycroft asked, watching his friend’s shoulders slump and his arms fall into his lap suddenly.

“No, Dad wouldn’t let me, said it wasn’t a proper pet.” Greg picked up his sandwich and took a bite, chewing quickly. “So what have you been doing these past few weeks? Have you had enough of Sherlock yet?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.  Greg knew how trying Sherlock could be at the best of times, and how irritating he was the rest of the time.  “Oh, I’ve just been getting summer reading and homework done-Yes, I’m finished with all of it.”  Mycroft said as he guessed the question Greg was about to ask.  “And Sherlock is about the same as ever.  Father won’t let me teach him anything I’ve learned at school so he steals my school books when I’m sleeping or otherwise occupied.”  Greg laughed fondly at that, and Mycroft smiled, his love for his little brother more than made up for his social ineptness or his recent string of theft.

And it was with that feeling in his heart that Mycroft Holmes looked out across the rolling hills towards his home, and saw a column of smoke rising from where his family’s estate should lay behind the trees.

“Get your father, Greg!”  Mycroft cried, drawing his wand as he stood and turned on the spot, stumbling out of the apparate and feeling sick, both from the gut-wrenching magic and the site before him. 

He was standing on the front lawn of his home, and it was that which he’d seen burning from over two kilometers away.  His family’s home was burning with thick, green-tinted flames, smoke poured from the top of the house, and he knew there was nothing he could do to save his childhood home.  There was no magic in his education thus far that had prepared him to be able to put out a magical fire of this magnitude.

“Sherlock!”  He screamed, coughing from the exertion on his vocal cords.  “Sherlock, where are you?”  He looked around him, near the pond, down the road, up the hill to the tree where his brother had taken to reading, but Sherlock was nowhere in the front of the house.  Realization dawned on Mycroft in an instant.  Sherlock was inside, with their mother.  In the burning house.

Turning his wand on himself, Mycroft cast a bubble-head charm to protect him from the toxic fumes, then the flame-freezing charm to protect him from the heat.  Mycroft shouted a muffled “Bombarda!” as he charged up the steps, blasting the front door open and ran into the fire.  

Mycroft raced down the hall, shouting Sherlocks’ name over and over.  There was no answer, there was only the loud roar of the flames in his ears and the sight of fire all around him.  It was only chance, Mycroft would later decide, that he found Sherlock in time.  The young boy had been thrown aside in the initial explosion and had crawled down one hallway and into the hall that lead to the front door before he lost consciousness.  It was there that the boy lied, face down, completely still.  Mycroft ran forward, casting the same protective spells on his brother that he had on himself, lifted Sherlock off the floor and into his arms, and ran out of the house as the walls began falling down around them.

Mycroft jumped from the front porch just as the roof began to crumble.  He almost collapsed from Sherlock’s weight as he landed on the ground outside, but was caught in the strong arms of Greg’s father.  Mr. Lestrade led Mycroft away from the burning house and lifted Sherlock from Mycroft’s shaking limbs. 

Tears filled Mycroft’s eyes when he beheld his brother.  Any flames that had been burning the boy had been put out when Mycroft had cast the flame-freezing charm, but Sherlock’s little body was still a bloody mess. 

The roaring in Mycroft’s ears intensified suddenly, and he looked back, one hand still holding his brother’s forearm, towards his home.  Witches and Wizards surrounded the house, every single qualified magic user in the area were using their wands to calm the flames that had grown ever higher. 

Mycroft felt the tingling sensation fade from his extremities and focused on not letting the spell he’d placed on Sherlock fade as well.  As the roof caved, he could feel the heat evaporating the tears from his cheeks.

Sherlock’s arm was wrenched out of his grasp, and when Mycroft turned, Sherlock was sitting up, fighting his way out of Mr. Lestrade’s grasp, trying to get to the house.

“Sherlock!”  Mycroft exclaimed, surprised and worried.  Sherlock took a determined step towards the house, pulling Mr. Lestrade with him.  “Sherlock, stop!”  Mycroft put himself between his brother and his destination.  He put his hand back on his brother’s arm, where he still had some intact skin, and said, “Sherlock, they’re gone.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock said dreamily, and with that, he into a heap on the grass.

 


	2. Awakening

Sherlock’s dreams were dark and uneventful; he was afraid, though, like he often was when the weather turned stormy.  He passed in and out of unfamiliar landscapes, most of them lasting only seconds before a new dream took the place of the last. 

Gradually, his dreams changed; brighter and more complex, with people he knew.  His mother talking softly to him while he laid in his bed.  His father standing far away with Mycroft, talking quietly so Sherlock couldn’t hear.  His family walking away from him as large, shapeless beasts crept steadily closer to the boy.  In all his dreams, though, he lay flat on his back, with the feeling of a thick blanket holding down his limbs and breath.  He couldn’t scream for his Mummy, Dad, or Mycroft to help him.  He felt like he was suffocating; but finally, finally, his mind settled into a dreamless peace.

 

Sherlock could hear people around him talking.  He tried in vain to move his head to look at the people speaking, but he couldn’t do more than listen.  He heard a soft voice say, “He had a wand in his pocket that ignited in the fire.”

“How can that happen?”  He heard Mycroft replied angrily.  “Wands don’t _explode_ when they’re burned.”

“Do you have any idea as to whose wand he had?”  The calm voice asked.

“Probably our uncles’ old wand.”

“When was it made?”

Mycroft hesitated before answering this time, “It’s been in the family for generations, it was kept because it worked well no matter who used it.”

The calm voice made an understanding sound.  “Wands made before the 1740s didn’t have the enchantments and protective charms placed on newer wands.  But you really needn’t worry, we’ll remove the leg and get it re-grown, it’ll just take a few days.”

“When you said it would be painful-”  Mycroft didn’t seem to be able to finish the question.

“Not nearly as painful as a life doing without.  It’s best we do it now, while he’s recovering.  It can be quite a shock to lose a limb.”

Sherlock couldn’t made sense what his brother and the calm voice were talking about, he supposed it was about the wand mummy had let him use, but he couldn’t keep up.  It seemed like another lifetime that he had used a wand.  Before Sherlock could suppose any further, he fell back into his dreams.

 

The pain woke Sherlock.  It wrenched his mind in two, he couldn’t think of anything but of the desire to escape it.  A blanket-like feeling still held down his limbs and made it difficult to breathe.  His right leg felt as if it was thrashing under the stabbing of hundreds of white-hot knives, but he knew he was immobile, laying somewhere unable to call for help.  Sherlock fought against the blanket, the poison in his mind, fought against it with all his might until he heard a shout.

A short shout it may have been but he was certain he was the one who had uttered it.  He cried out again, with more force this time, and let his agony color his voice.  He heard something heavy fall to the floor, and shouting that wasn’t coming from him.  Sherlock felt clammy hands press against his forehead and cheeks as he continued to scream.  His pain grew as time went on, it continued past the point that his voice wore out, after the clammy hands left his face, and long after the pain made him think he must be losing his mind.  Sherlock didn’t know the end of his pain, his mind fell back into a dark and dreamless realm, exactly where Sherlock wanted to be.  He didn’t think he would mind if he never woke up.

 

When Sherlock scratched the surface of consciousness again, the pain was blessedly gone.  For a long moment, the lack of pain was all he could comprehend.  Then he noticed that he could hear the low, steady breathing of a person right beside him.

Determined to not fall back into the dark dreams, he tried to lift his head, open his eyes, wiggle his fingers, anything.  He could no longer feel the heavy blanket holding down his limbs, and after several minutes of struggling, Sherlock finally opened his eyes.

He was in a white room, dark in all but one corner where a cluster of medical instruments whirred quietly.  Sitting in a chair on his right, head down on the side of the bed, was Mycroft, breathing deeply and clearly asleep.

Sherlock looked around the room for a few seconds, head lazily tilting from side to side before he decided he was in a hospital.  He’d been in one before, when Uncle had died.  Mummy, Dad, Mycroft, and Sherlock had all gone that day.  Why was Mycroft the only one here now?

Sherlock pushed his hand, -covered in gauze, he noted- into the top of his brothers’ head.  Mycroft turned his head slightly, then sat up, looking Sherlock over with a strange expression. The two boys were quiet for several seconds, then Mycroft asked, “Are you in pain, brother?”

His first thought was a resounding  _ no,  _ after the indescribable torment of his sleep he felt that nothing would hurt him ever again.  Still, Sherlock began his self-analysis.  His head felt fine, a bit fuzzy and he had a headache, but nothing too uncomfortable.  His torso, shoulders, and back ached, his right leg felt deadened, like he didn’t have any nerves below his hip, and all over he felt as if his skin had been stretched too tight.  Painful?  No.  Uncomfortable?  Definitely.

“Not at the moment.”

Mycroft sighed, his eyes softening for a moment before glancing down as he took Sherlock’s bandaged hand in his.  “Sherlock, do you remember anything?”

Sherlock noticed that something in his brothers’ voice sounded wrong, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.  “I remember my leg hurting terribly.  And eating lunch with Mummy, and before that playing with a wand and looking for crystals.”

Mycroft looked weathered, like he had aged several years while Sherlock had slept.  His soon-to-be fifteen year old brother looked more like their father than ever.  Sherlock couldn’t place the change exactly, but Mycroft’s eyes looked lost.  While Mycroft looked at Sherlock with an unfathomable expression, Sherlock quickly began deducing his brothers appearance.

_Wrinkled shirt, been wearing it for three days, hasn’t showered in-_ sniff- _ over ninety hours, puffed skin around eyes, been crying, a lot. _

He noticed other things as well, of course.  Like the date on his brother’s watch, over a week after the last time Sherlock was awake; his brothers’ clothes were not his own, the too-small shirt and jacket were Greg Lestrade’s.  An odd smell hung over his brother, more like the Lestrade’s home than Sherlock’s.

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, raising his hand to hide his mouth from his brother’s searching eyes, but Sherlock had already seen the set of his mouth.  Something happened that he didn’t remember, something bad.  Sherlock took an uneven breath, wide eyes questioning his brother before his mind could form the correct words.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, in a sort of a coo, stroking the back of his brother’s hand, “Sherlock, there was an accident, a fire, at our house.  Do you remember that?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t move an inch, just looked at his brother with wide, frightened eyes.  Mycroft took a deep breath and looked at his little brother.  Still holding one hand, he touched Sherlock’s flattened curls softly, gave them two loving pats before dropping his hand to the back of Sherlock’s bandaged hand.

“Mummy and Dad didn’t make it, Sherlock.”

The small boy stayed very still on the bed, eyes wide and unfocused.  Mycroft was still as well, knowing exactly what his brother needed from him: to be still, to be kind, and to remind him to breathe in exactly ten more seconds.

Sherlocks’ bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, and his eyebrows furrowed by an infinitesimal amount before the boy became a statue again, eyes boring into his brothers’.

“Breathe.”  Mycroft commanded quietly, but his brother didn’t move.  “Sherlock, please breathe.”  He said again, rubbing his thumb on the back of his brothers’ gauzed hand.  

Sherlock took a shaky breath, blinking his eyes several times quickly and turning his head away to look at his feet.  After a minute of silence, Sherlock murmured, “Why?”

Mycroft let out a huff of air.  He wasn’t ready for this.  As much faith as Greg had had in the hope that Sherlock would understand, Mycroft knew who would be at fault in his brother’s mind.  “Mum let one of her experiments get out of hand, the potion ignited, and the explosion killed them instantly.  I was lucky to get you out alive, brother.”

“No.”

“No what?”  Mycroft said softly, bracing himself for Sherlock’s anger.

“You could have saved them!”  Sherlock shouted, turning his glaring eyes on his brother and wrenching his hand out of Mycroft’s.  “You could have stopped it from happening!  You should have been at hom--”  His voice broke, Sherlock looked down at his clenched, bandaged fists and fought against the blurs around the edge of his vision.

Mycroft stood and pulled the blanket aside with one hand, lifted Sherlock into his other arm, and sat on the bed with his brother in his lap.  He pressed his lips into his brothers’ dark curls as he pulled the blanket around them both.  Sherlock pressed his face into his brother’s chest, into the fabric of his brother’s boyfriend’s shirt as the tears overtook him.  

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”  Mycroft whispered into his brother’s hair.  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, but I promise that from now until forever,” Mycroft paused to wait for Sherlock to look at him, and stared into those brilliant blue eyes.  “I will always be here for you, I will always take care of you.  I will move mountains and change the world before you lose someone you love ever again.”  Mycroft pulled his brother against his chest, stroking his curls gently.  The Holmes’ brothers stayed this way for the rest of the night and well into morning, until Sherlock had cried himself out and Greg’s shirt was ruined.

 

“What will happen to me now?”  Sherlock said a few hours later, between gasping breaths that shortly followed a bout of hysteria.

“I’ve arranged for the two of us to stay with the Lestrades until school starts.”  Mycroft said quietly, loosening his grip on his brother and sighing with relief.  Sherlock’s anxiety attacks, though somewhat expected, worried Mycroft to no end.  “You’ll stay with them while I attend school.”

Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position and gasped.  “What?  You can’t leave me with Mrs. Lestrade all term!  Not with you and Greg away, she’s a  _ muggle _ !”  Sherlock looked absolutely horrified at the idea, the fresh tears adding to the effect.

“What else would I do with you, Sherlock?  If I’m going to raise you, I have to finish at least two more years of school, or I’d never find a proper job.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“No.”

Why not?  I’m smart enough, you know I am!”  Sherlock put on his best pouting face and focused his unblinking, stern eyes on Mycroft.

Mycroft opened his mouth, then stopped, his eyes unfocusing on the world around him for a split second before again opening his mouth.  “I have to go.”

“You’re leaving me?”  Sherlock squeaked as his brother swept gracefully out from under him and tucked him back into bed.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sherlock, Greg will be here any minute now to stay with you.  In fact, I do believe that is him walking down the hall.”  Sherlock pricked his ears, thinking Mycroft must surely be joking or purposefully distracting him.  “I’ll be back soon.”  He said, giving Sherlock a quick kiss on the top of his head.  Mycroft strode around the bed, collecting his coat and umbrella and adjusting his too-small clothes before opening the door to a startled Greg.  Mycroft said a bright ‘morning’ to Greg and crossly told Sherlock to go to sleep before strutting down the hallway of St. Mungo’s.

 

Though Sherlock Holmes was recovering well, it was over a week before he was let out of hospital.  That week was spent, for the most part, getting back scratches from Greg (regrowing all the skin on one’s back, arms, and chest is extremely itchy) diagnosing the nurses with horrible illnesses and cheating lovers, complaining about the nasty food, and being totally, utterly, bored.  Mycroft didn’t come back to visit Sherlock until the day he was released, though he did send Greg over with an armful of school books for Sherlock to read (which Sherlock was intensely grateful for).  On the day Sherlock was finally free, Greg, Mrs. Lestrade, and Mycroft were all there to take Sherlock home.

“Sherlock!  You’re looking better than ever, ready to come home?”  Mrs. Lestrade asked in a singsong voice reserved for young children.  

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed already, and stated,  “I look exactly the same as yesterday, Mrs. Lestrade.”

“Where have  _ you _ been this past week?”  Sherlock asked crossly, turning to face his brother.  “Been out on the town seeing the sights of London?”  Sherlock could see precisely that from his brother’s appearance; Mycroft’s shoes were wet but clean (compared to Greg and his mother's muddy shoes), his  _ brand new cloak _ was damp, like he’d been walking outside (the rain had just stopped a half-hour ago), and there was the tell-tale, shimmery coat of floo powder on the elder Holmes that wasn’t present on Greg or his mother.

His brothers’ reply was short and stern.  “At the Ministry of Magic, putting our parent’s affairs in order and arranging your future.”

Mycroft never took well to Sherlock’s cheek.  Still, Sherlock did his best to look unabashed as he helped pack his clothes and books away for the trip to Greg’s house.

“Sherlock,”  Mycroft said, taking a knee in front of his brother while Greg and Mrs. Lestrade politely stepped into the hallway.  “I got you a gift.”  He pulled a package wrapped in plain brown paper from the pocket of his cloak and handed it to his brother.  Sherlock released the bow and pulled the string away from the paper, which unfolded to reveal a beautiful looking glass.  This new one was much better than his old plastic one.  As Sherlock looked through the lens, a wave of emotion washed over him unexpectedly. 

Sherlock hadn’t spent his time in the hospital feeling sorry for himself.  In fact, besides the first night he’d spent crying in Mycroft’s lap, he hadn’t shed a tear for his parents.  Now, however, tears spilled from his eyes without his consent as he gripped the handle of his magnifying glass.

“I thought you could use a new one.”  Mycroft said gently.  Sherlock looked up at him with a small smile and murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ as he wiped the tears off his face with his sleeve.

Mycroft stood, Sherlock took his brothers’ hand and didn’t let go until they were seated on the train.

 

The train ride to their hometown was uneventful, and Sherlock grumbled multiple times to Mycroft that the only reason they had to take ‘muggle movers’ was because of Greg’s mum.  When the train finally stopped Sherlock was in a foul mood from all the shushing Mycroft had given him.  The car ride from the station was thankfully short; the only interesting thing out of the whole trip for Sherlock was when the car passed by his destroyed home.  He caught a glimpse of the blackened, caved-in roof before the car swept away and his home was hidden behind rows of trees.

 

That afternoon, Mycroft took Sherlock for a walk to the farthest corner of their parents’ estate.  On the way, Mycroft filled his brother in on the events that had taken place while Sherlock had been unconscious in St. Mungo’s. 

The day following the fire, legal guardianship of the two boys had, in the absence of any living family, been appointed to Greg’s father, Oliver Lestrade.  Mr. Lestrade was also named caretaker over the Holmes’ estate and assets until Mycroft came of age.  Mycroft told his brother about a conversation Mr. Lestrade had had with Mycroft about responsibility and what it meant to be the head of a family before Mr. Lestrade had handed him the key to his parents’ bank vault.

“That’s a lot of trust to put in a foolish fourteen year old.”  Sherlock commented as they climbed through the fence into their parents’ estate.

Mycroft gave his brother an exasperated look.  “He said I was the ‘most intelligent young man he’d ever met’ and he knew that I’d ‘do right by Sherlock.’  But I suppose you’re right, now would be the best time to prove him wrong and blow it all on gambling.”

“No,”  Sherlock said, “either one of us could make another small fortune in a game of Toad’s Folly.”  They had done nearly that the last time their father’s friends had allowed the boys in on a hand.  After that evening, the two Holmes boy’s had been banned from gambling with the grown-ups.

The two boys laughed and were quiet for a moment.  

“When was the funeral?”  Sherlock asked quietly.

“The morning before you woke up.”  Mycroft said with sadness permeating his voice.  “There was a larger turnout than I expected, over three hundred people came.”

Sherlock looked at his feet and breathed a quiet ‘wow’ as he followed his brother blindly up a hill.  It was only when Mycroft stopped at the crest of the hill that Sherlock took a look around.

It was on this very hill they’d been on when Mycroft had gotten his first Hogwarts letter.  A plain brown owl had swooped down and nearly crashed into the pitcher of lemonade while the four Holmes’s had been having a picnic.  

A large, branching oak tree stood as the highest point in town and kept the hilltop cool with it’s shade.  Sherlock was familiar with the hill; besides the many family picnics they had enjoyed here, Sherlock had taken to stealing and reading his brother’s school books under the tree earlier that summer.  To Sherlock, the addition of two gravestones turned his happy memories into shades of gray.

The boys walked around to face the matching headstones; Mycroft held back a little to give his brother some privacy.  Sherlock dropped to his knees before the magically-moving pictures of his mother and father set into their headstones.  In his mother’s picture, she stood in falling snow, beaming out at her two sons and waving a gloved hand.  Their father’s picture was of their now-lost library; Mr. Holmes sat in his high-backed chair with a pipe in one hand and a book in the other, reading aloud to a red-headed boy and a toddler with black curls forming around his ears.

Mycroft held his position while his brother silently cried; he’d fallen to his hands and knees, clutched at his chest, pounded the ground with his fists, but hadn’t said a word or let loose a wail.  It was just as the sun sank below the horizon that Sherlock got to his feet, touched each of the grave markers and said something that was too quiet for Mycroft to make out.  Sherlock turned his back to the pair of headstones and walked by his brothers’ side to the Lestrades’ home.

 

Over the next month, Mycroft was behaving absolutely tyrannical over Sherlock’s schedule.  He made his younger brother read (or re-read, in some cases) every school book Greg owned (which regrettably only spanned the first two years’ worth of education at Hogwarts), then spent an hour quizzing Sherlock over its’ contents.  Mycroft instructed Sherlock on the finer points of potion brewing and had him practice a new potion every day.  Sherlock was given lessons on and tested over transfiguration, charms, astronomy, even dueling.  As the summer wound on, Sherlock, as pleased as he was over the extra attention, began wondering what his brother was planning.

“I will not continue to participate until you tell me why we’re doing this!”  Sherlock exclaimed one evening as Mycroft was instructing him on a complicated charm.  The young boy crossed his arms, clearly refusing to perform the magic.

“Oh, just tell him, Mycroft.”  Greg called from his broomstick above the two brothers.  Greg wasn’t an active participant in Sherlock’s tutelage, though he was often around, doing flips on his broomstick or setting loose Mimsical Mice to alleviate his boredom.  “He’ll find out soon anyway.”

Mycroft glanced up at Greg, then studied his brothers’ stubborn face for a few seconds.  “Okay, Sherlock.  In two days’ time you and I will travel to Hogwarts where you will be tested to see if you can attend school a little early.  If the professors think you’re up to the challenge, you’ll be a student this September with Gregory and myself.  Now, do the charm, please.”

The delight on Sherlocks’ face was contagious, “Avis!”  he cried with all his might, and a flock of cardinals sprung from Greg’s wand and began circling and chasing Greg as he sped on his broom across the field.  The boys laughed, Mycroft included, and Sherlocks’ tutoring continued with new fervor.

 

Two days later, Mycroft woke Sherlock before the sun had announced its’ approach on the horizon.  The sky was just beginning to lighten when a sound like a gunshot echoed through the sleepy town of Hogsmeade.  

“Send an owl when you know you’ll be done, and I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks.”  Mr. Lestrade told Mycroft.  The elder Holmes nodded as he glanced up and down the street to get his bearings.  “Good luck today, Sherlock, I know you’ll do great.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lestrade.”  Mycroft said, nudging his younger brother, who produced a distracted ‘thank you’ as he gazed longingly at the display window of Honeydukes.  Mycroft bade Mr. Lestrade farewell and started up the street in the direction of the school.

The sun peeked over the horizon as the boys walked through the streets of Hogsmeade and beyond to the surrounding countryside.  Mycroft continued to quiz Sherlock until the castle came into full view as the road wound around a hill.  Sherlock gasped, taking in the scene of the beautiful castle.

 

Sherlock walked slightly behind his brother as they marched to the front gates.  For once, words failed him; towers rose high enough to touch the clouds, the spiraling windows reflected the sun into his eyes.  Sherlock pressed his nose against the greenhouse walls, trying to see the plants inside.  ‘Amazing’ didn’t correctly express the sights before him, and he couldn’t think of a word wonderful enough, so he settled for gasping and pointing at different parts of the castle.

After the boys had passed the front gates and took a few steps into the courtyard, the gates closed on their own with an earsplitting crash.  Sherlock jumped nearly a foot in the air and looked back at the offending metal.  When he turned toward the castle again, a lone figure stood in the open doorway leading into the school’s atrium.

Mycroft shook hands with the man when they reached him.  The professor asked Mycroft if he was well, lamenting the loss of their parents.

“Again, it’s such a blow to the whole community to lose talent such as your parents, son.  If you should ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.  We of Slytherin must stick together.”

“Thank you professor, but allowing my brother to be tested and possibly to attend Hogwarts early is more than I’d ever need.”  Sherlock smiled awkwardly at the man when he flashed his brown eyes at the boy.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, “this is Professor Moriarty, head of Slytherin house.  He’ll be testing you today.”

Sherlock shook the hand of the tall man, his grip lost in the professor’s wide grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a really long time since I posted chapter one, but here's chapter two!
> 
> This work is in limbo, but I have a total of 4.5 chapters already written, so I figured I'd post them.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. The Test

Professor Moriarty escorted the Holmes brothers into the castle and wasted no time in getting started on Sherlock’s testing.  “Mycroft, you may do as you like; the library, owlery, great hall, and a couple other common areas are unlocked and at your disposal.  While you’re here you are allowed to perform magic if you wish, as the trace isn’t active on school grounds.  If you’re not in the great hall at mealtimes an elf will bring you a plate.  I believe your dormitory is also prepared if you wanted to have a lie-in; Sherlock and I will find you when we’re finished.”

“Thank you, professor.”  Mycroft said, and gave Sherlock a nod before walking up a flight of stairs.  

“You and I will head to my office, Sherlock.”  Moriarty said before he turned and started down a long, tall hallway off the atrium.  “Did you bring a wand?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pulling a wand from a special pocket in his robes.  “Greg Lestrade let me borrow his for the day.”

“That was very sporting of him.”  Professor Moriarty commented as he lead the boy down several flights of stairs and into the dungeons.

Professor Moriarty held open a door for Sherlock, the boy stepped inside and looked around.  His office was situated off a large hallway and held two doors, the one they had just entered through and another ajar door that lead into a classroom.  Behind an ornate desk stood a bookshelf that spanned from both walls to the ceiling, but otherwise the office walls were lined with shelves holding jars of all sizes containing bottled animal skeletons, fetuses, animals (some of whom were still swimming), even a decapitated hand.  Sherlock interested himself with a pickled cornish pixie while the professor closed the hallway door.  He left the other door open and began pulling several books from the shelf behind his desk.

“Am I wrong in the assumption that Mycroft has been teaching you basic magic in preparation for today?”  

Sherlock turned from the jars to the professor.  The man was looking through his spectacles at a book titled ‘Beginning Transfiguration, Part One”

“No, professor.”  Sherlock said, remembering what Mycroft had pounded into his head about manners and how to address teachers.

“I thought he would, what all has your brother taught you?  Let’s start with my own subject, what do you know about transfiguration?”

And so began a three hour long conversation about magical theory.  After transfiguration they talked about charms, potion-making, magical creatures (though Sherlock didn’t know much about any of them), and herbology.  Professor Moriarty then had Sherlock answer some mathematics questions on a chalkboard (he got all but two of the division questions incorrect, but the professor didn’t seem too disturbed by it).  They reviewed some basic chemistry, and talked for almost a full hour about biology, Sherlock told Professor Moriarty about his now-lost journal with drawings of animals that lived around his home.

“You should start a new one, inquiry is the mark of a functioning mind.”  The professor said, reviewing a list he’d been compiling during their discussion.

A platter of quartered sandwiches and juice appeared on the desk with a soft popping noise.  The professor poured the juice into two glasses and told Sherlock to help himself.

Sherlock was a bit surprised it was already lunchtime, as he ate his second sandwich he suddenly worried that Professor Moriarty hadn’t asked him to perform any magic.  He was about to mention it when the professor waved his wand over the desk with a flourish.  Books snapped shut and flew back to their positions on the bookshelf, quills straightened themselves in their holders and the inkwell closed its lid and latched itself.

“Have you had enough to eat?”  Professor Moriarty asked, lips pursed as he rolled up the list he’d written and peered at Sherlock from over the tops of his glasses.

“Yes, sir.”  Sherlock said as the professor plucked a dusty gray book from the top corner of the bookshelf.

“Come on, then, son.”

Sherlock stood and followed the professor through the open door and into the classroom.  The professor placed the book on one of the pupil desks and opened it to a page about three quarters of the way to the back of the book.

“This is your test,”  He began, conjuring a small stack of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell onto the desk beside the book.  “You will read about a piece of magic, write a one-page summary over it and answer” another flick of his wand and a piece of chalk sprang to life and began writing on the side of a chalkboard facing away from Sherlock, so he couldn’t read the questions, “three questions about the theory behind the spell.  When you are done, you will perform the spell to the best of your ability.  Bring me your summary before you start on your questions, and bring me your answers before you start conjuring.  You may use your book only while writing your summary and while you attempt to perform the spell.  You may not ask me for help unless you have a question over the assignment or about the definition or pronunciation of a word.”  Professor Moriarty studied Sherlock over his spectacles again, his expression stern.  “Do you object?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you may begin.”

Sherlock sat in the seat in front of the book, the professor strode to the large desk in front of Sherlocks’ and began writing on a very long stretch of parchment.

Sherlock pulled the book a little closer to him and read the title of the article: The Patronus Charm.

 

Sherlock re-read his summary; it made sense to him of course, but he couldn’t be sure how clear his wording would be for someone else.  He had never written a paper before, and while he felt he did a decent job at touching on the major points of the chapter, he fretted over his inexperience.  

With a sigh, Sherlock stood and took his essay to Professor Moriarty.  The man was still writing on the same piece of parchment he’d started on when Sherlock began reading, and Sherlock had to be careful not to step on it as he passed the professor his summary.  Professor Moriarty paused in his writing when Sherlock stood, and accepted the boy’s essay with another surveying look ever his spectacles.  Professor Moriarty flicked his wand once; the book on Sherlock’s desk snapped shut and the chalkboard with questions written on it flipped around so Sherlock could see the writing.  The professor read Sherlock’s essay while Sherlock started on his questions, making marks here and there with red ink.

 

_What two magical creatures is the patronus charm effective against?_

Sherlock wrote the question at the top of his paper, then (in complete sentences like Mycroft had told him a hundred times) wrote: The Patronus Charm is effective for the protection against Dementors and Lethifolds, who are very similar despite their differing effect on the human psyche.

 

_What is the difference between an incorporeal patronus and a corporeal patronus in appearance, difficulty of casting, and effectiveness?_

Sherlock neatly wrote the question and his answer, re-read both, then added another sentence before moving on to the last question.

_Why is the production of this charm exponentially more difficult while in the presence of one of the two magical creatures mentioned in question number one?_

Sherlock resisted writing that most people would be scared out of their wits and instead answered with a brief summary of the attack strategy of the two creatures and their magical abilities to confuse and dishearten their victims, and how that related to properly casting the charm.

Again Sherlock re-read his writing and as he walked to the professor’s desk he hoped his answers would have some semblance of clarity.  Professor Moriarty flicked his wand at the book when he had Sherlock’s answers and it obediently flipped to the first page of the Patronus Charm chapter.  Instead of taking his seat, Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the desk as he’d been sitting and turned the book to face him.  He carefully re-read the page on conjuring a patronus.

“Professor, will you tell me if my pronunciation is correct?”  Sherlock asked, turning to look at the man.

“Yes, that will be fine, Sherlock.”  Professor Moriarty paused from writing on Sherlocks’ answers with red ink.

“Expecto Patronum.”  Sherlock said clearly.

“Close, but put a little more emphasis on the second half of ‘expecto.’”

Once Sherlock’s enunciation was acceptable, Professor Moriarty set him free with a quick ‘Go on, then.’  Sherlock drew his wand and walked into the middle of the room, facing a set of armour brought in from the upper levels of the school.

Sherlock closed his eyes, drawing his wand in a circle while he decided on a memory.  His thoughts brought him to his last day with his mother, when she set him loose on the world with a wand and a case.  He’d been happy then, he thought.

“Expecto Patronum.”  He said clearly, waiting a second before opening his eyes.  Nothing had happened, and he didn’t really expect it to on his first try.  Before uttering the incantation again, Sherlock let the feeling of his memory fill him up.  He opened his eyes before speaking the words.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Again, nothing happened, and he tried not to let that bother him.  The book had stressed how advanced the patronus charm was, that many fully qualified wizards were unable to cause more than a floating whisp from the end of their wand.  Sherlock reconsidered his happy memory, his wand arm still drawing circles in the air in front of him.

Maybe something earlier in his life, something that had less to do with his own happiness and more to do with his mother’s.  Before the fire, Sherlock had lived to make his mother happy-

He made himself stop that thought right there.  Getting worked up now wouldn’t help him focus, and he already felt a stab of loss through his torso.  Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly, he began making circles with his wand again.  There was no denying it was his family that made him happiest, so he selected a memory from a Christmas holiday two years previous.  

Mycroft had come home from school and the family had gone to visit Sherlock’s uncle for the day.  He’d lived in a flat in London before he died, in the second story of a building on Baker Street.  Sherlock, Mycroft, and their parents had spend Christmas morning squeezed onto his living room couch exchanging gifts and drinking hot chocolate, and Sherlock had never been happier.  His brother was home, and Mycroft had gifted Sherlock his first real broomstick, one that would fly up into the sky and not just skim over the grass.  Sherlock remembered that his mother had held his hand while he sat in his fathers’ lap, the three of them listening and laughing to Mycroft’s stories of school and popping open Uncles’ novelty Christmas crackers.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and found that they were wet.  He focused on that morning, let the love he felt fill him to the brim, and quietly said the incantation.

“Expecto Patronum.”

A silvery puff shot from the tip of the wand and hung in the air for a moment before slowly falling down to the floor, it vanished before it touched the cool stones beneath Sherlock’s feet.

“Well done, Sherlock.  Really well done.”  Professor Moriarty’s face looked just a surprised as Sherlock felt.  Sherlock also saw something else there, something slightly greedy.

 

Professor Moriarty packed up his incredibly long parchment and placed it in his office with Sherlock’s essay and answers before the two of them set off in search of Mycroft.  It was already late in the evening, so late that dinner had already been served and mostly eaten.

They found Mycroft in the great hall, and it was there that Professor Moriarty bade the boys farewell.  “I have to finish my report and share my opinion with the Headmistress.  You are both more than welcome to stay in the castle tonight, as it’s getting late.  Sherlock, I expect you’ll receive the results of your examination just in time for the Hogwarts acceptance letters go out.  Good evening, boys.”

Mycroft demanded every detail about Sherlock’s test.  Sherlock filled him in between frantic bites of his dinner, he was starving after his scanty lunch.

“It’s very impressive you were able to produce _anything_ with that charm, even if it didn’t resemble a patronus, Sherlock.”  Mycroft reassured him when Sherlock said he didn’t do well during his conjuring.  “Besides, I think he was looking to see if you had the theory correct, and it sounds like you did, with taking time to focus on a happy memory and making counterclockwise circles with your wand.  I doubt your results lie in what your patronus _looked like._ ”

After Sherlock had his fill of shepard’s pie and chocolate cake, the two boys walked to the owlery to send a letter Mr. Lestrade letting him know when to meet them at the Three Broomsticks.  On the way, Sherlock jokingly asked his brother what he thought Professor Moriarty had been writing on the nearly six-foot long parchment.  

“You jest, but he may have been writing a piece of magic that would allow you to attend school early.”  Mycroft said as he scratched out a quick note for Mr. Lestrade on a scrap of paper.  Sherlock looked away from the rafters, filled with owls of every color and size, to his brother’s still frame.  The boy considered what Mycroft said for a moment, then asked;

“What do you mean, _write_ a piece of magic?  Is he describing the process of casting the spell?”

“I’m not sure, it’s an extremely old way of practicing magic.  Professor Moriarty told me a little about it last term, and he mentioned it again at the Ministry of Magic back in July.”  Mycroft tied the folded letter with a string and lifted an arm to the birds in the rafters.  A large brown owl fluttered down and perched on the boy’s shoulder with one foot sticking out, ready for the letter.  “Mr. Oliver Lestrade.”  Mycroft told the bird as he slipped the string over its’ leg and tightened it with a tug.  The owl immediately flew threw the window and out into the setting sky.

“Why were you at the Ministry of Magic in July?”  Sherlock asked, though he thought he already knew.

Mycroft moved through the owlery door and the brothers descended as the elder brother answered, “Convincing a room of high-ranking slackjaws that a person who is intellectually and magically capable should be allowed to petition their way into studying at Hogwarts regardless of their age.  Professor Moriarty and I argued the case for a little over three days.  The fourth day, the day you were released from St. Mungo’s, was quick.  The council agreed and authorized Professor Moriarty to make the change in the schools’ magical substructure.  The spell he was working on wouldn’t just be for you, anyone who wants to attend school early will now be able to request an assessment.”

“Did their decision include waiving the underage magic restrictions and removing the trace once I finish my seventh year?  If I get in now, I’ll only be fourteen when I take the N.E.W.T. exams.”  Sherlock asked as the two boys entered the front doors.

Mycroft avoided his brothers’ eyes and sighed.  “Don’t worry about that now, Sherlock.  Professor Moriarty and I will see to it that the law is changed before you take your N.E.W.T.s.”

“Is the Ministry of Magic so _daft_ that they think--”  Sherlock began hotly.

“It wasn’t everyone, it was mostly Marianne Abbott in the Improper Use of Magic office, she’s quite important, but as you said, also quite daft.”  

Sherlock rolled his eyes, Mycroft would never truly speak ill of a Ministry employee, no matter what they did or how incompetent they were.

“When are we meeting Mr. Lestrade?”  Sherlock asked as he followed Mycroft back into the school.  

“Tomorrow morning,” the elder Holmes replied, “the dormitory is ready for us here, and I thought you might prefer a bed to Greg’s bedroom floor for a night.”  Sherlock immediately voiced his agreement.  Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade hadn’t yet fully cleared out a spare bedroom for Mycroft and Sherlock, though it had been two months since the fire at the Holmes’ estate.

Mycroft lead Sherlock down into the dungeons, where Sherlock knew the Slytherin common room and dormitories were hidden.  Mycroft stopped and turned at a nondescript section of stone wall.  

“Password?”  Hissed a disembodied voice that made the hair of the back of Sherlock’s neck stand on end.

“Salazar.”  Mycroft said confidently.  The wall in front of the boys began to fold in on itself, leaving a rounded, door-sized hole in the once-solid stone.  Sherlock followed his brother through a short passage and into a darkly lit room with low ceilings.  

A bright fire burned in a green fireplace at the far end of the room, the mantlepiece sporting several snakes with green gems for eyes that seemed to be glowing.  The walls and floor were dark grey with black and green accents, and in the room sat several tables with matching chairs in the same color pallette, the wood stained an extremely dark brown.  Overall, Sherlock thought the room a tad gloomy, but he liked it.  The boy walked to a wall on his left, examining a cubby just large enough for someone to curl up with a book.

“Wait ‘till you see it during the day, these windows here” Mycroft indicated tall, perfectly black panels on one side of the room that Sherlock had mistaken for solid wall “look out under the Black Lake.  Sometimes merpeople or the giant squid come by, and it gives the room more light.”

“Cool.”  Sherlock said.  

Mycroft gave his brother a grin and turned toward the dormitory door.  “Girls’ dorms are up, boys’ dorms are down”  he explained as he began descending down the spiral stone staircase.  Sherlock hurried to follow, touching the cool glass along one side of the staircase wall as the boys descended lower and lower.  The brothers passed three doors before Mycroft stopped and turned the handle on a dormitory door.  

Candles burned on two of the bedside tables in the long rectangular room, a small furnace halfway down the length of the room housed a warm fire that fought against the chill present throughout the rest of the dungeons.  Four beds were lined up on the left wall, each with a short foot bureau with two drawers and a curiously shaped top that looked like a perfect place to sit the type of trunk that Hogwarts students seemed to especially prefer.  Dark emerald curtains hung around the four-poster beds for privacy, though the middle two, the ones with candles on their bedside tables, were pulled back, revealing fluffed pillows and slightly lighter emerald blankets.  A long window, just like the one above them in the common room, stretched from wall to wall along the length of the room on the right-hand side.  

Sherlock walked to the window to press his fingers against the cold black glass while his brother busied himself with pulling their pajamas out of his rucksack.  “I wonder if I’ll be in Slytherin.”  Sherlock voiced, looking at his reflection in the glass.  

“Mother was in Ravenclaw.”  Mycroft commented, and Sherlock remembered the countless times his parents and their friends had told Sherlock he was _so very_ like his mother.  

“Does it matter which house you’re placed in, or are they mostly the same?”  Sherlock turned away from the window and began removing his robes.  Mycroft tossed his brothers’ pajamas on a bed and sat on his own before he answered.

“Not really, no.  If you’re in Ravenclaw I daresay you’ll have more willing people to study with.  Older Hufflepuffs tend to tutor the younger students more than any other house.  The majority of Gryffindors don’t seem to study at all, but maybe they just study in their common room.  And Slytherins tend to study with their dueling partners and maybe one or two more people.”

Though studying wasn’t exactly what Sherlock had been thinking of when he asked the question, he found the answer interesting.  He’d save it to look back on later.  “Do the houses get along?  I read that Slytherins and Gryffindors never like each other.”

“That may have been true some time ago,” Mycroft said as he pulled the covers over himself “but I’ve never seen it.  Mostly when those two houses get riled up at each other someone lost spectacularly in a Quidditch match or got destroyed in a dueling match during the final tournament.  But those rivalries usually die down after a few weeks.  My best friend is in Gryffindor, if you remember.  Greg and I manage to sit together in the great hall at least one meal a day.”

Sherlock had settled into bed during his brother’s speech, he was thoughtful for a moment while Mycroft put out the candles.  “Can students be in other houses’ common rooms?”

“A common room of a house they don’t belong in?”  Mycroft asked, Sherlock nodded and Mycroft must have seen the action in the near pitch-blackness that engulfed the room.  “Technically no, though there’s no written rules about it.  If I brought Greg in here, there’d be an uproar from the other students in my house.  But I’ve been in the Gryffindor common room twice and nobody said anything.  Mind you, I received some dirty looks from people I’d never even spoken to, but overall, no one cared.  Ravenclaws feel about the same as Gryffindors, and Hufflepuffs always have their friends over after a quidditch match, regardless of who wins.”

Sherlock fell silent, and soon Mycroft’s soft snoring filled the room.  Sherlock turned on his side and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping desperately that he would be allowed to attend Hogwarts that year.

 

The next morning the brothers rose early, admired the Slytherin common room in the greenish morning lake-light, ate breakfast quickly in the great hall and started their walk to Hogsmeade all before eight thirty.  Mycroft pointed out the Quidditch pitch and asked Sherlock if he’d like to take a detour into the stadium, which Sherlock declined.  He didn’t feel as strongly about quidditch as his brother.

 

The two met Mr. Lestrade outside of the Three Broomsticks at a quarter past nine.  They each took a hold of one of the wizard’s hands as he turned on the spot and a loud _crack_ filled the sleepy village.


	4. Turn of Events

Sherlock Holmes was in a foul mood.  The boy was in the spare room that had finally been cleared out for Sherlock and Mycroft to move into, he was laying on his side on his bed, curled into the fetal position facing the wall.  He hadn’t moved from that spot, save for bathroom breaks, for three days.

Four days ago Greg and Mycroft had, for the first time ever, convinced Sherlock to play quidditch.  Sherlock didn’t particularly like flying on a broomstick, (though he was sufficient at it) and he didn’t usually enjoy organized sports.  But the older boys had persisted, and Mycroft had managed to dig their parent’s set of quidditch balls from the half-destroyed broom shed.  Sherlock suddenly announced, at half-past eleven in the evening, that he would play with Greg and Mycroft the following day.  

The three boys were scarfing down their breakfasts the next morning when Greg’s father walked in with the mail.  He had two copies of The Daily Prophet, one for himself and one for Mycroft, and two letters from Hogwarts.  One for Greg, and one for Mycroft.        

Sherlock had sat in burning shame and anger for less than two seconds before storming off to his room and locking himself inside.  It didn’t matter to him that Mycroft had received a prefect badge with his letter, or that Greg was going to be captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team despite only being a third year.  He was going to miss out on it all, anyway.  He was going to spend his days alone with a muggle.

He tried not to dwell on it.  He’d done everything right during his exam, and thinking about the any number of reasons why he hadn’t got an acceptance letter burned him up inside.  In the early afternoon of the same day the two older boys had received their letters, Sherlock accidentally made a teapot explode when Mrs. Lestrade had insisted he come out of the room for tea.  Mycroft had apologized profusely on Sherlock’s behalf, explaining that Sherlock had no control over outbursts of magic like that.  Mycroft had followed his brother back to the room and lectured him that even though  _ technically  _ he couldn’t control magical outbursts, that Sherlock needed to keep his emotions in check and not get himself so worked up.

Mrs. Lestrade hadn’t insisted on Sherlock doing anything after that.  He didn’t feel bad, though he knew the muggle had been terrified.  _ Hell,  _ thought Sherlock as he stared at the yellow wallpaper,  _ I didn’t expect that to happen, either.   _

And so, Sherlock lay listless in his room, keeping his emotions in check and keeping everyone at bay.  He didn’t want to talk to any one of them, especially Mycroft, who thought he understood Sherlock.  But Sherlock scoffed at that; Mycroft had never faced the prospect of spending an entire school term alone save for a muggle.  Sherlock had to grit his teeth to prevent any unwelcome tears at the thought.  His time at the Lestrade’s would be terrible, there seemed no way around that.  

The young boy’s musings were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the bedroom door opening.  

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but Sherlock interrupted before he could continue.

“Go away, Mycroft, I don’t have anything to say and I’m still not hungry, go pack your trunk or something.”

There was a slight pause followed by a rustling of paper.  “Dear Mr. S. Holmes,”  Mycroft began again.  

In a blur of motion Sherlock had moved from the fetal position facing the wall to sitting up with his back ramrod straight on the side of the bed facing his brother.  Mycroft took a moment to read his brother’s facial expression before continuing. 

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. --”

His next sentence was drowned out by Sherlock’s cheers and screams of delight.

 

The following Saturday, Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock, and Mr. Lestrade were found in Diagon Alley covered in soot and ready to buy their school supplies.  Sherlock had never visited Gringotts bank before, he laughed and joined in with Greg’s whooping during the ride down to the Lestrade’s and Holmes’s vaults.  After collecting the appropriate amount of galleons, the four trooped to Madam Wilkins for new robes.  (Both Greg and Mycroft had grown several inches each, while Madam Wilkins doted over Sherlock, exclaiming how she’d never seen such a small boy going to Hogwarts).  They collected new books, potions ingredients and a new cauldron for Sherlock, and replenished their stock of quills, ink, and scrolls. (Sherlock begged his brother for a new sketchbook for drawing animals and taking notes, Mycroft actually got him a much better one than he’s originally asked for).  Mycroft had to special order a pair of dragon hide gloves for Sherlock (who was small even for an 8 year old).  The four stopped for lunch and ice cream before once again attacking their supply list.  Greg was gifted a new broom from his grandfather for making quidditch captain and they had to pick it up (a Nimbus 2020!), Mycroft and Greg spent over an hour in the dueling supply store, absolutely drooling over the merchandise.

“Why do I need a dueling cap?”  Sherlock asked, as he sneered at the ugly brown leather helmet in Mycroft’s hands.  “I don’t plan on dueling!”

“Plan on it, Sherlock, it’s compulsory.”  Mycroft said, sounding bored as he covered Sherlock’s curls and checked the fit.

“Well, I’m not wearing this!  It’s hideous!  It looks like a football helmet from a century ago!”  Mycroft didn’t appear to be listening.  “Besides, this won’t block spells, I’d still get whatever was coming at me.”  Sherlock was dismayed, looking at himself in the mirror with what appeared to be half a cracked dragon egg on his head.  “I’ll never make any friends if I have to wear this.”

Greg laughed at this.  “Sherlock, everyone in the first two years have to wear those, it keeps your head safe long enough for you to hold your own in a duel.  Otherwise all the students would get brain damage from getting thrown around before anyone learned how to block.  My cap didn’t make it through two years, or I’d let you use mine, Ritchie Connor managed to melt it into the grass on the dueling ground at the end of last year.”

Sherlock just groaned while Mycroft paid for the small dueling cap.

“Well, Sherlock, it looks like all you need is a trunk, a telescope, and a wand.”  Mycroft sounded tired as he consulted Sherlock’s supply list.  

The Holmes brothers parted ways from the Lestrade's to split up the work, the sun was already beginning to set and everyone was tired and hungry.  

As Sherlock walked into Ollivander's, he felt his mouth fall open as he beheld the countless rows and teetering stacks of wands all in their boxes.  He’d been waiting for this moment for as long as he could remember.  Mr. Ollivander was initially skeptical that Sherlock had an acceptance letter, and demanded to read the letter himself before beginning the process of finding Sherlock a wand.

“Mr. Holmes,”  Ollivander said to Mycroft, his face older than old and his eyes beginning to gloss over with a white film.  “There is a reason children don’t go to school until age ten or eleven.  The child changes drastically in the formative years between seven and ten, I only bring this up because a wand that would have chosen your brother three years from now might not choose him at this younger, delicate stage.”

Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft rolling his eyes before his polite but pointed reply.  Mr.  Ollivander pursed his lips but set about the shop grabbing wand boxes and handing them to Sherlock one at a time.

As the pile of unfit wands grew, Sherlock began to worry that Mr. Ollivander was correct and no wand would work for him.  It comforted him a little that Mycroft didn’t seem to be worried about Sherlock not finding a wand.

“Now this wand,”  Mr. Ollivander said, feeling his way around a dusty corner.  “Is immensely special.”  Sherlock waited anxiously for the old man to continue, but no further explanation came.  In fact, he seemed hesitant to unbox the wand and hand it to Sherlock.  “I’m afraid that, since my sight began to fade, finding a match has grown increasingly difficult for me.”  He had a wistful smile on his lips, Sherlock noticed.  “But I think this will suit you well.”

Mr. Ollivander opened the box and removed one of the most elegant wands Sherlock had ever laid eyes on.  The wood was pitch black, with a silver inlay wrapped around the length ending at the tip.  It had a classic shape, with a broader, obvious handle and working end as straight as an arrow.

“Ebony and Starlight wood, with a Phoenix feather at it’s core.  Eleven inches.”

As Sherlock took the magnificent wand in his hand, a warmth spread through his fingers and up his arm, and he felt butterflies in his stomach and what felt like a giggle trying to escape him.  He instinctively waved the wand above his head in a large circle, casting a golden light that fell like glittering, winking stars all around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, this project is officially on hiatus. I'm just not feeling John and Sherlock these days.  
> Thanks for reading!


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